[Elora]

OK, here's a draft Ruiel post for consideration. It may change depending on other final events. If that is so, please don't hesitate to contact me.

I'm working this up somewhat preemptively so that when the time comes I shall not hold things up. That bears an attendant risk that the state of play can change and make my draft redundant.

I forsee though, at this time, that this will be Ruiel's second last post.

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Rannë shot through Ruiel's door without so much as a word. Ruiel's head snapped up at the intrusion, her expression fiercely cool. It made barely a dint in her normally circumspect and level headed maid's demeanour.

"What is this," Ruiel snapped waspishly at Rannë.
"Dryea has been arrested!"

Rannë wasted no breath on curtesty titles nor tactful words. Indeed, she was still puffing from her sprint through the Manor's halls. Ruiel dropped her nib in startled surprise, ink splattering over the paper she had been working on as well as her silk gown. She ignored both stains as the ink spread darkly. Distantly in her mind, a cool voice observed that the ink very much represented the ill fortune that would undo all her work, inexorably spreaking like a cankerous disease... We are not ruined yet, Ruiel snapped back at herself.

Rannë's wide eyed expression of dismay deepened and Ruiel realised that she had spoken aloud. She abruptly stood, the furrows in her brow deepening. Gone was the cultivated air of a delicate Gondorian noblewoman. Ruiel had little use for it now. Rannë saw her mistress transform into the Umbarian Corsair she truly was, desperation and implacable will garbed in a stained silk robe and clutching an ornate golden dagger like to the one her eldest daughter had dropped.

"When did this happen," she snarled.
"Within the hour," Rannë blurted anxiously. "Dryea was taken into custody by the Steward himself."
"And what of Alethea," Ruiel probed. Rannë blinked, surprised by this sudden turn of seemingly maternal concern.

"I have heard nothing of the young Lady Morthaniawen," Rannë replied. She gasped as she watched Ruiel's expression become one of infinite rage. With one hand, Ruiel swept the contents of her desk onto the floor with a shattering crash.

"Treachery!" The accusation hung in the air. Ruiel struggled to breath through her rising violent temper and Rannë took an involuntary step backwards. The Lady Morthaniawen moved behind her chair and gripped the back of it with white knuckled hands. Rannë was certain she'd hear the crack of wood splintering soon. Such rages were rarely witnessed.

Indeed, Rannë had only seen them twice before in her many years of service to Ruiel. One had been the instrument of freeing her from the Captain. The other had lead to Lord Morthaniawen's death. Both had resulted in murder. Ruiel had not risen to her rank in Umbar's array of spies and courtisans with clean hands.

"Dispose of everything in this office."
"Everything?" All the years of work, to be destroyed. In a chill, bleak voice, Ruiel repeated herself.

"Everything." Ruiel released the back of her chair and stalked from the room, her step becoming swifter and swifter still. If Rannë was found destroying documents then so be it. She'd find a new maid sooner or later. She'd find a new household and house if it came to that.

As for her daughters and herself, that was a different matter entirely. Alethea, if she was traitor, would be protected by Eckthelion. Umbar would have to wait for it's vengeance against her treason. Dryea may possibly be saved. Ruiel had no intentions of leaving her eldest daughter, who knew so much, alive and able to speak, waiting at the Steward's leisure. Dryea would either be rescued or given the only honourable way out.

Ruiel would certainly not sit like a duck upon a glassy millpond whilst the ocean tossed and the wind howled. Too long and too much she had laboured for this. She tore the silk robe from her as she entered her room and riffled through her wardrobe. Tucked away in a dark corner was exactly what she was looking for.

When Ruiel slipped out of her room and crept her way through her house, it was as though she were a common assassin once more. Garbed in common streetwear, her hair tucked up and away in a man's hat, Ruiel melted into the steady traffic of people with only two things in her possession. One was her golden dagger. The other was her right of safe passage across Umbar's borders. No need for frippery now, and let the Steward's men find the matron of Minas Tirith's society shuffling along like a common innkeeper.

Two things were also upon her mind: Death and Freedom.